


Unphotographable

by Margot_Lescargot



Series: Burdens of Responsibility [11]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: (then go blow shit up), Abigail Kamara: Wedding Planner, Canon compliant to end of Lies Sleeping, M/M, Nightingale and Peter have a manly hug, Post-Canon, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Planning, crack with feelings, set four years after Lies Sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21730759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margot_Lescargot/pseuds/Margot_Lescargot
Summary: Four years later... two days at the Folly.A proposal.  And a wedding.
Relationships: Thomas Nightingale/Alexander Seawoll
Series: Burdens of Responsibility [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1522985
Comments: 24
Kudos: 49





	1. The Study

The unseasonable October cold snap continued and icy rain lashed the windows and showed no sign of abating. The streets would be dreary and grey tomorrow.

Inside, Thomas’ original vinyl copy of _Chet Baker Sings_ hissed slightly on the Folly’s ancient radiogram in one of the first floor studies that had proved easier to heat; to heat uniformly at any rate. He and Alex were seated in armchairs on either side of the fireplace, while Foxglove and Molly took the sofa opposite. Even now, there was something slightly stiff in Molly’s bearing as she sat at one end of the sofa, intricately embroidering a bonnet for the latest Grant-Thames arrival. Foxglove had no such compunction, and she lay with her feet in Molly’s lap, staring meditatively into the fire, an untouched sketchpad on the floor beside her.

Thomas was engaged with that day’s _Telegraph_ crossword, though perhaps not concentrating quite as hard as he might have been, given the occasional looks that passed between him and Molly. Whatever their meaning, they were unnoticed by Alex, engrossed as he was in the denouement of a Scandinavian crime thriller.

He appeared to have reached the end, as he hmphed, closed the book and said ‘Bollocks,’ in a satisfied tone.

‘Hmm? What?’

‘Nothing. Nothing of importance anyway.’ Alex yawned slightly and stretched. ‘What time is it? Is it worth putting another scuttle on, do you think, or just leave it? How much longer were you planning on staying up?’

‘Not that much longer. I’m pretty tired after today.’

‘Today? What was- oh, of course, you went to Woolwich again. Are they not sick of the sight of you by now?’

Alex turned, to put the book on the table beside him, and, as he did so, Thomas glanced significantly at Molly. In response, Molly rose gracefully to her feet, Foxglove following her instantly, and both indicated their intention to retire.

‘Oh, right. ‘Night then,’ said Alex.

‘Good night,’ said Thomas to their retreating backs.

‘I shall probably not be long after them,’ said Alex. ‘But, anyway, you were saying, the foundry. Good day was it?’

‘Yes. It was.. it was productive. Yes.’

‘Good. Have you started another staff then?’

‘I have, yes. But that’s not what I was working on today, in truth. I, er, made something for you actually.’

‘You made something for me? At the foundry?’ Alex looked bemused as Thomas nodded. ‘Well, come on then. Is it finished, whatever it is?’

‘It is. I have it here in fact.’ With his customary swiftness, Thomas rose from his chair, and took the two paces needed to kneel in front of Alex’s. 

He produced a ring from the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘Alexander James Seawoll, will you marry me?’


	2. The Atrium

31 December 2019

‘I suppose we ought to get up,’ said Thomas.

‘I suppose so.’

‘And we’ve flouted the tradition in any event.’

‘Tradition?’

‘You know. That it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride on the morning of the wedding.’

‘Bad luck?’ Alex spluttered. ‘Yes, of all things, that’s definitely what we should be worrying about.’ He added ‘And which of us is the bride, do you suppose? No, don’t answer that – it clearly has to be me, on account of my finely-turned ankles.’

He leaned over and kissed Thomas. ‘Idiot,’ he said affectionately, and got out of bed. ‘I am going home now, not because of tradition – because, frankly, that ship sailed long ago – but because that’s where my suit is and where I’m meeting Miriam and the rest of my lot.’

As he headed to the bathroom, Thomas held out a hand.

‘It will be alright, won’t it?’

Alex stopped, and took his hand. ‘It will be alright,’ he said smiling, and bent to kiss him again.

***

The most obvious question, perhaps, they had discussed the same night that Thomas had proposed, as they lay together in front of the fire in the study, in a tangle of discarded clothes, cushions and throws, needing to go and find an actual bed to lie in, but neither of them having the inclination or the impetus to stir just yet.

‘So,’ said Thomas, rubbing his cheek on Alex’s head as it lay on his shoulder, ‘all well?’

Alex grunted, ‘hmm,’ and they had lain a while longer in silence, until Alex pulled back and looked at Thomas.

‘There is the one thing of course.’

‘What one thing?’

‘Well, you… me. The ageing thing. Or not.’

‘Oh that.’

‘Yeah, that.’

‘Well,’ said Thomas. ‘What of it?’

‘I don’t know, it’s just…. what? You trot down to Somerset House every ten years and get your birth certificate doctored…‘

‘Officially doctored.’

‘.. officially doctored. And I just…carry on?’

‘As matters stand, I don’t see any other way, I'm afraid. As you know, it’s been like this for, what, forty or so years now; it’s not something I can control. I can’t say that Peter and Abdul won’t come up with something. They do actually seem to be quite animated by one idea at the minute; something to do with it being caused by extreme trauma or somesuch, and so if the effects of that trauma are somehow lessened… or healed or… something, then there may be attendant consequences. They were discussing it at some length the other day, but I may have stopped listening at some point.' He paused. 'And in any event, it’s obviously not something I could rely on.’ 

Thomas raised himself up on one elbow and looked down at Alex worriedly. ‘Would you rather I hadn’t asked? It’s been six years, all told, and, outwith my particular circumstances, it is something I would like to do, to declare if you will. Now that I can.’

‘Yeah, no, of course.’ Alex took his hand. ‘And of course I’d rather you asked; I’m not going anywhere.’ He gave Thomas’ hand a squeeze. ‘If I’m honest, it’s something I try not to think about too much. But, I suppose, absent anything else, we just ride it out and see what happens. There’s no point looking for trouble.’ He considered. ‘And, as it goes, if it does carry on, you’ll have drawn the short straw, ‘cause I’ll keep getting older and you… won’t.’

‘Alex, I can assure you – to the utmost of my powers – that I have not drawn the short straw in this situation,’ and bent his head to kiss him.

‘But,’ he continued, seriously, ‘Now would be the time to say something if this is going to be an issue for you.’

Alex was silent for some moments longer while he thought further on the matter, then said ‘Oh fuck it,’ and reached up to pull Thomas’ face back down to his.

*

‘New Years Eve? You want us to get married on New Years Eve?’

‘Well, why not? Most people we're inviting aren't likely to have big plans. Abigail can always bugger off and do something else later on if she wants to, and anyone else for that matter. And it means everyone is guaranteed the next day off to recover.’

‘Are you saying that one of your main concerns is how hungover you’ll be the next day?’

‘I’m from the north,’ grinned Alex. ‘And it’s a wedding. My wedding. It’s pretty much my only concern.’

‘Marvellous.’

‘..And,’ continued Alex, ‘it’s the day before your birthday, so close enough to nod, but not so that they’ll get conflated.’

‘Yes,’ said Thomas, drily. ‘Celebrating my birthday is of vast importance to me.’

‘Ok. Stop being a dick. It’s on New Years Eve and that’s all there is to it. That gives us two months. Done.’

Molly and Foxglove, who were notionally present for the discussion but had been all but forgotten by this point, were following the exchange like spectators at a tennis match.

‘But Alex, isn’t New Years Eve one of the Met’s busiest nights? I mean for the non-specialist units?’

‘Possibly. But not at DCI level, that’s the beauty of it. And our Miriam and Sahra will wangle something. I’ll make sure of it.’

So New Years Eve it was.

Other matters were fairly swiftly settled. It would be a small affair, as neither of them were keen on the idea of performing to a crowd. Abigail, after some focused digging in the mundane library and an afternoon in the archives at Camden Town Hall, had discovered that, due to the Folly having had a functioning chapel at some point in its history, it still qualified as approved premises for a civil wedding ceremony “in accordance with the Marriage Act 1949” she concluded primly. So the Folly was named as the venue – as if there had ever really been any question – as, added to which, there were enough rooms for any guests to stay over if they chose to.

Alex proposed calling in a favour from one of his neighbours, who was a registrar and, given the date, likely to be free for a couple of hours in the afternoon. The Irregulars were secured for the evening, and Peter offered the services of two of his cousins – one to set up a Folly-appropriate PA system, and one who had enough vinyl of the right sort to fill in the gaps.

Molly would be responsible for the catering; the merest suggestion that she may require some assistance in providing for a wedding party of around thirty people caused her to vibrate alarmingly – until Foxglove placed a soothing hand on her arm - and the matter was not mentioned again. Foxglove, in turn, would take care of flowers and all other decorative matters necessary to render the atrium and the main dining room fit for purpose.

And while there was not a great deal further to do in terms of organisation, Abigail – on being told the news – informed them that she would be happy to act as wedding planner. She effected this in the main by making copious lists in a notebook procured specially for the occasion. It was exactly the same as all her other notebooks, but instead of having a black cover, this one was bright pink.

*

Thomas arrived at the Bee House mid-way through the afternoon, at that particularly annoying time for a hostess, too late for lunch and too early for tea. 

Although, as matters stood, Mellissa was unlikely to offer Thomas the warmest of welcomes, however he timed his arrival, so it hardly mattered, he reflected. Though he genuinely regretted the solecism.

As the Jag crunched to a halt on the gravel of the Bee House’s drive, Thomas could see Mellissa already standing in the doorway with her arms folded. He could feel the thrum of the hive at her back.

He alighted from the Jag and retrieved a tan bridle leather overnight bag from the boot.

‘You are not to over-tire him,’ said Mellissa without preamble.

‘Mellissa. How lovely to see you.’ He pecked her on the cheek.

‘I’m serious. He’s not too good in this weather.’

‘I understand. And you may trust me; I have no intention of distressing him. Quite the opposite I hope. I told you why I was coming.’

‘Yes,’ she conceded tetchily. ‘I suppose congratulations are in order.’

‘Thank you Mellissa. How very kind. Where is he?'

‘In his study. He insisted on receiving you in there,’ and she gave Thomas a glare as if he were responsible for Hugh’s actions.

‘Thank you. May I go up to him?’

Mellissa shrugged, but stepped back into the hallway to let him pass.

‘Remember what I said,’ she called up behind him as he mounted the stairs, and he heard the underlying hum of the hive take on a momentarily menacing tone. ‘And if it looks as if he’s about to faint or anything,’ she continued, ’be sure to call to me immediately.’

‘I shall, of course. But, please remember, Mellissa: if anything untoward does happen, it will not be the first time I have had to have an eye to Hugh.’ And he continued up the spiral staircase.

Thomas entered Hugh’s study to find him awake. He was seated by a crackling fire, in a low armchair with a blanket over his knees, despite the warmth of the room. He was leafing through a bound anthology of _Bee Craft_ magazines, but closed it and put it aside as he saw Thomas enter.

‘Tom. You made it. Sit down, sit down.’

‘I did. Thank you.’ Thomas took the proffered seat next to him.

‘How splendid to see you. Mellissa told me you were coming.’

‘Yes. How are you?’

‘Oh well enough, well enough, you know. But what brings you all the way from town in November?’

‘Well,’ there was a pause, ‘there was something I wanted to tell you, and I’m afraid it won’t wait until the spring.’

‘Oh yes? Would it, by any chance, have something to do with that strapping policeman I’ve heard so much about?’

Thomas blinked. ‘I’m sorry? What?’

‘Oh, Harold’s been in touch. Strapping was the word he used in any event. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?’

‘Well yes, but what-‘

‘Oh, you know how it is. Harold likes to keep us abreast of all the latest on-dits.’

‘I see,’ said Thomas grimly. ‘And what form did this communication take, I wonder? Smoke signals? Semaphore? Did he perhaps send a carrier pigeon?’

It was Hugh’s turn to blink. ‘I believe he sent an email. But I could double-check with Mellissa, if you like. She would know.’

‘No, no need.’ Thomas recovered. ‘So, what did Harold tell you exactly?’

‘Merely that. That you had become… involved – to all intents and purposes – with some senior-ish chap from the Met.’ Hugh’s brow furrowed with recollection. ‘Hailing from the north, possibly?’

If Thomas could have sighed through gritted teeth he would.

‘Is that not correct information then?’ said Hugh, looking puzzled.

‘Yes, it is. But that’s not why I’m here. Well not entirely.’

‘Oh?’

‘We’re.. ‘ he cleared his throat, ‘that is, we’re to be married.’

‘ _Oh_.’

‘And I wanted to let you know in person. Harold didn’t steal a march on me there as well did he?’

‘No. No… Married, is it? My word.’ Hugh smiled. ‘I’m not really sure of the appropriate response. “And are you quite sure?” used to do in my day. Our day, I suppose.’

‘Yes,’ Thomas smiled. ‘Quite sure.’

‘I see. And does.. this chap-‘

‘Alex.’

‘Does Alex know about..’

‘About David? Yes, of course. I told him about all that. Ages ago.’

‘Did you now?’ said Hugh. ‘Well, good for… both of you I suppose.’

There was a moment’s silence, until Hugh said, tentatively, ‘And are they alike?’

Thomas came out of a reverie. ‘Alex and David you mean? No. Not remotely.’

‘Well, after all this time. You can’t blame me for wondering.’

‘Of course not. But no. Physically, they couldn’t be more different. Alex is large. Tall and broad. Fair also. And otherwise, no.' He considered. 'You remember what he was like… mutable,’ Thomas smiled, ‘that was the word he taught me.’

‘”Everything is change,”’ said Hugh.

‘Quite.’

Thomas thought for some moments, made sure he had the right words.

‘David was like quicksilver. Oftentimes I would struggle to catch him between my fingers.’ He paused. ‘Alex is like a rock. He is immovable. Torrents may beat upon him ceaselessly and he will not falter. He holds me up,’ Thomas said simply, ‘and I find I am glad to relinquish the burden of doing so.’

Hugh was quiet, and Thomas wondered if he had fallen asleep.

‘ _Hic hominum cunctos ingenti corpore praestans Iapetonides Atlas fruit_ ,’ he said at last.

Thomas looked blank. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Oh of course,’ chuckled Hugh. ‘I’d forgotten. It doesn’t matter.’ He coughed, and then recovered. ‘And are you happy?’

‘Yes. I believe I am.’

‘Yes. I may not be as reliably perceptive as I was in my prime, but I think I can see that you are. If I may say so, it’s taken long enough and I am most tremendously pleased, Tom, really I am. And happy, moreover, that I am still here to witness it.’

Hugh advanced a slightly shaking hand to grasp Thomas’. It was papery and as weightless as a small bird, but there remained in it a core of steel.

‘You’re a good man, Tom, and if this is what you say it is – and I have no reason to doubt you – then you deserve it.’

Thomas could give no immediate answer, except to gently squeeze the frail hand in his.  


Thomas spent as much of the next day as could be managed in conversation with Hugh, and left later than he’d intended, with some books for Peter, and three cardboard pallets of jars of honey for Beverley.

‘Well I shall deliver them of course,’ he said, as one of Mellissa’s harem loaded the jars into the boot of the Jag, ‘if you think it really necessary.’

‘She’s just had a baby,’ said Mellissa, as if explaining quantum to a very small child, ‘ _of course_ it’s necessary.’

‘Jolly good.’  


Due to the lateness of the hour, Alex was already in bed when Thomas let himself in, but not yet asleep. After welcoming him back in an appropriate fashion, they fell back against the pillows and began to catch their breath.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello,’ Thomas turned his head on the pillow to smile at Alex.

‘How was the drive?’ asked Alex, after a few moments

‘Not too hellish actually. I made pretty good time considering I only left after a late tea. We shall have to visit when the weather improves. It’s a beautiful part of the country.’

‘Yeah, I’d be interested to see it; I’ve never been out that way.’ Alex paused, ‘And you told him then?’

‘Yes,’ Thomas’ brow furrowed slightly. ‘That was pretty much the sole reason for my visit. He won’t be able to attend, unfortunately, he’s much too frail these days to travel as far as town. But it was good to see him, as always. And Mellissa of course.’

‘Mmm.’

‘What?’

‘So… what did you tell him about me then?’

‘Alex, are you fishing?

‘Slightly,’ he turned and raised his head to rest it on one hand. ‘Well? I always wonder what you say about me to people who don’t already know me.’

‘Exactly as you’d expect. I said that you are a high-ranking officer in the Metropolitan Police Service – one of the most respected and formidable at that. That you are the most decent man I have ever met and that I can depend on you utterly. As indeed I do. Ought I to have said any different?’

‘No, s’pose not. Hmm. I always seem to get decent and dependable, but I can live with that. There are worse things. And not forgetting, of course,’ he leaned forward so that his breath tickled the shell of Thomas’ ear, ‘that I fuck like a train.’

Thomas laughed. ‘Yes, my darling, you do’ he said.  


A few weeks later, when they happened to be breakfasting alone at the Folly, Molly entered with the post. She handed two or three envelopes to Thomas and then rounded the table to lay one next to Alex.

‘What’s this?’ he said, looking up at Molly. ‘For me?’

Molly looked vaguely incredulous at the question.

‘But who’s writing to me here?’ Molly raised her eyebrows in general disinterest and drifted away.

Alex picked up the envelope. The cream paper was thick and expensive. He turned it over, puzzling and then held it up to show Thomas. There was the figure of a bee embossed on the back.

‘Ah,’ said Thomas.

None the wiser, Alex opened the envelope and drew out an old-fashioned visiting card, clearly covered, from where Thomas was sitting, in a spidery sepia hand. Alex looked at the name.

‘It’s from Hugh Oswald.’

’So I inferred,’ said Thomas.

Alex began to read it, squinting over some of the lettering, his expression unreadable.

‘Well?’ said Thomas, when he was done. ‘If it’s appropriate to share, that is.’

‘Yeah.’ Alex shook himself slightly. ‘Of course,’ he looked again at the card. ‘He introduces himself, apologises profusely – his words – for not being able to make it to the ceremony, and sends me – well, us – his very best wishes for our wedding. And he hopes that we’ll be able meet before too much longer.’

‘Is that it? There seems to be rather a lot of writing just for that.’

‘Well, no. Not just that… He, er, talks about you. Says that he’s seen that you’re happy - which is good by the way. And says that you are,’ Alex consulted the card again, ‘singular and extraordinary.’

Thomas rolled his eyes. ‘That again. It is rather exasperating, I grant you, but he means it with the best intentions.’

‘Well,’ said Alex, ‘He’s not wrong. I’ve always thought that. And I’m not talking about the weird bollocks either.’

‘Alex, really…’ Thomas faltered. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

Alex shrugged. ‘Don’t have to say anything. It’s true is all. What?’

Thomas was staring at him fixedly. Then he got out of his chair and marched around the table. He took Alex’s face in his hands and kissed him.

‘Thank you, Alex. Thank you for that.’

Alex smiled. ‘That’s alright, trouble. It is what it is.’

*

‘…So who will you have?’

‘Miriam, obviously. We go way back. And I was best man at her wedding. And you? Have you thought about it?’

‘No real need. I shall ask Molly.’

‘Molly? Really?’

‘Of course. I would have thought it was obvious. Why? I know the two of you get on.’

‘We do. Like a house on fire. I dunno, I just assumed you’d ask Peter.’

‘Peter is a dear lad and I’m incredibly fond of him. But she is my oldest friend; she has seen me through everything. You cannot imagine.’

‘No. I know.’

‘So, and only if she wants to of course, I would like her to stand beside me, at the ceremony. On the day. She may not want to of course, I have considered that. But it will be such a small gathering, and barely anyone there that she doesn’t already know, so… I am hopeful of prevailing. It would mean a great deal to me. And something to her also, I’d like to think.’

Alex leaned over and kissed him.

‘What was that for?’

‘Nothing,’ said Alex. ‘I love you.’

*

There _was_ some debate about clothes.

‘Well, a morning suit would obviously be most appropriate,’ Thomas mused. ‘Although, of course, the ceremony is in the afternoon. But, even so, it’s not actually taking place in the evening. And as long as it doesn’t have a notch lapel… So yes,’ he said, ‘morning suits then?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No. There is no way on this earth you are getting me into a tailcoat. Especially when there’ll be photographic evidence.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Thomas, look at me. Do you really think a tailcoat is going to do me any favours? Trust me. You’d never want to fu-‘

Foxglove frowned.

Alex coughed. ‘Sorry Foxglove. What I mean is, I’ve been doing this long enough. I know what looks ok on me, and there’s not that much. And I do not propose spending the entire day feeling uncomfortable. So. I will get a new suit. And I warn you now, it’ll probably be the same as all my other suits. Except newer.’

‘Look,’ he said, ‘this is much more your thing anyway - and you don’t need me to tell you that you do it very well – so if that’s what you want to do, you wear it.’

‘I can’t wear a morning suit on my own!’

Alex sighed, ‘Well, wear something else then. Wear whatever you want. That’s the whole point, surely?’

‘Fine, fine. Well, if you’ll excuse me. Foxglove, I think we’re done for the moment, thank you. Alex, I’ll see you later,’ and he strode in the direction of the courtyard, picking up the keys to the Jag from the table on the way.

Foxglove turned to Alex and raised her eyebrows in inquiry.

‘Yeah,’ said Alex. ‘I know where he’s gone.’

Some forty minutes later, Thomas delivered himself into the soothing and extremely sympathetic hands of Mr Michael, his regular tailor at Dege and Skinner for almost twenty years, who listened attentively and tutted appropriately at the frankly unfathomable attitude of Thomas’ fiancé.

Thomas calmed his ruffled feelings further by placing three new suits on the Folly’s account, muttering darkly that he’d decide nearer the time which one he would wear, as clearly no one would mind either way.

*

Peter turned up for Sunday morning practice with Rosie in tow, having called ahead. ‘Bev’s taken the baby to her mum’s. Rosie didn’t want to go. Probably because she wouldn’t be getting all of the attention.’ Peter sounded as exhausted as any parent with a new baby. ‘Shouldn't be a problem,’ said Thomas. ‘Alex is still here. I’ll check but I don’t think he has plans. We can manage something between us, I’m sure.’

An hour or so later Peter rounded the back stairs into the atrium, Rosie tumbling after him.

’…But I want to….’

‘Rosie, no. I’ve told you. I need to do practice. You can go and play with Molly and Foxglove. Do some drawing. Maybe make biscuits again. I would like some biscuits.’

‘No! I want to watch the magic! Pleeeeeease. I’ll be quiet. I promise.’

‘Now then, young lady,’ Alex bowled over to where Rosie was dancing around in agitation. ‘What’s all this?’

‘I want to watch the spells but Daddy says I can’t. Silly Daddy.’

‘Oh no, I’ve been waiting for you to get here because you _might_ be able to help me. I dunno though.’ He bent down in front of her, but even squatting on his haunches, Alex had to lower his head to get to Rosie’s level.

He gave her a hard look. ‘Hmmm. No, I’m not sure.’

‘What?! What?’

‘Well – can you keep a secret?’

‘Yes.’

‘Reeeeally?’

‘Yes!’

He edged closer to her ‘Well,’ he said, in a dramatic stage whisper, ‘the other night, when I was staying here, I think I heard something in one of the attics.’

‘What?!’

‘Shhh,’ said Alex. ‘I’m not sure, but there was a _lot_ of stomping and I think there might be some wild things up there.’

Rosie’s eyes went wide. ‘Wild things?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know. But I didn’t want to go up on my own and Thomas has been too busy to come with me. What do you think? Would you be brave enough to help me go and look?’

‘Yes,’ and Rosie puffing out her little chest. ‘I’m very brave.’

‘Well ok then. But we’ll need to be ready. Thomas and your daddy have their staves. And I’ve got my, er, policeman’s stick. Have you got anything?’

She pouted. ‘No.’

‘Hmm. Well I brought this, just in case,’ and he produced from behind his back a small wooden bow and an arrow with a sucker on the end. ‘I’m still not sure though. Maybe you’re a bit small.’

‘No! I’m not! I can do it!’

He appeared to give it some thought while she hopped from foot to foot expectantly. ‘Right you are. Come on then.’ He hoisted her onto his shoulders as she squealed with delight, and bore her off towards the main staircase. He turned, and gestured to the bow and arrow. ‘Is this alright?’ he said to Peter.

‘Er, yeah. He’d have given her a real one,’ said Peter. ‘Where are they going?’ he asked Thomas as they ascended the stairs with whoops.

‘No idea,’ said Thomas. ‘Last time I found them counting out the stuffed animal heads on the third floor. Could be anything this time. They’ll turn up again when they get hungry.’

‘Rosie tells me she’s going to be your chief bridesmaid.’

‘Chief?’ Thomas looked puzzled. ‘She’s the _only_ bridesmaid.’

‘Rosie,’ Peter enunciated clearly, ‘is chief bridesmaid, and if you want to take it up with her then please be my guest.’

Thomas considered. ‘No. I think I’d rather not.’

Peter grinned. ‘Shame. I would’ve liked to have seen that, but it’s probably for the best.’

‘And you, er, you understand about my asking Molly to be my best.. person, is I believe the term we’re using. We have gone through a great deal together over the years.’

‘Of course. I absolutely get it.’

‘Thank you. But we would like you to say a few words. On the day I mean, if you’d like to. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Molly’s not a great one for giving speeches.’

Peter smiled. ‘Yeah. Yeah, that’d be nice. Thanks.’

Thomas fidgeted slightly and seemed to come to a decision. ‘And aside from that, there is something else I wanted to say.’ Thomas took a deep breath. ‘Peter, I… we… are not very good at this.’

Peter shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s ok, sir.’

‘No. If I may, it’s not. There is something which ought to be said, and there really is no better time.’ He considered how to begin. ‘You know, I hope, quite how great a difference you have wrought in my existence in the last seven years or so. Indeed, I do not think it could have been greater.’ He paused. ‘If it were not for you, I should likely still be mouldering within these walls, making Molly’s life a misery.’

Thomas cleared his throat and continued. ‘As I say, this is not my metier, so you need not be concerned that this will be a regular occurrence, but,’ and here he looked directly at Peter, ‘I wanted you to know – I wanted to tell you – once, at the very least – that you are a fine policeman, that I am extremely proud of you, and what you have achieved thus far, in some unfeasibly trying circumstances, and that I know that you will be, in time, a great wizard.’

‘But not as good as you,’ interjected Peter, whose eyes were beginning to glisten.

Thomas grinned. ‘By no means as good as me,’ he assented. ‘But notwithstanding that, I am continually and wholeheartedly grateful that you came into my life. More than, perhaps,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘you or I will ever have cause to know.’

Somewhat gingerly, yet resolutely, Thomas stepped forward and hugged Peter, who made no resistance and hugged him back. There might have been a muffled sob on Thomas’ shoulder, who could just make out the words ‘I’m grateful too.’

After a few more seconds, Peter stepped back. He dashed his eyes with the back of his hand and sniffed loudly.

‘Thanks. For saying that. I appreciate it. Really.’ He cleared his throat and looked around.

‘So what now?’

‘What else? Onwards. A spell on the firing range would perhaps be most apt, don’t you think?’ said Thomas, and, turning, led the way to the basement.

*

All Thomas’ previous relationships, such as they were, had been conducted under a regrettable, but necessary, veil of secrecy and isolation, so he was unsure of the generally accepted mores of contemporary couplehood. Moreover, with the Englishman’s inability to conceive of variety he did not know whether the habits that he and Alex had fallen into were usual, or specific to them, and he had no intention of asking.

For example, there were times, more often than one would think, when they would just… embrace, there was no other word, and hold each other for a while; sometimes longer, sometimes not. Thomas couldn’t remember exactly when or how it began, but, at times, and never for any particularly discernible reason, they would simply gravitate, one to the other, and Alex would put his arms around Thomas, who would do the same and simply lean into him. There was nothing inherently sexual in it, it was hardly ever a precursor to anything else, just a short-lived, yet affirming, intermission of stillness and togetherness, an unspoken and unashamed request for intimacy, silent except for their heartbeats. 

Or there were the other times, when they were in bed and moving against each another, the heat rising between them, and Alex would sometimes cease moving and be still - never for very long - and press his torso against Thomas’, if they were not already touching, or place a hand on Thomas’ chest, and they would do nothing except breathe together, and just be, as the seconds ticked by. And in those moments, Thomas felt so perfectly, so completely… held by Alex, in a way that he had never before experienced, and would feel a glow within him which had little to do with their exertions and more a combination of joy and thankfulness for what they had, somewhat improbably, discovered in each other.

Though of a generally practical and unpoetic turn of mind, it had not taken too long for Thomas to articulate to himself that loving Alex, being loved by Alex, felt like nothing so much as walking into a warm room on a bitterly cold day.

*

They’d mutually agreed that they were beyond the age when anything approaching a conventional stag night was appealing, albeit three weeks before Christmas they spent the evening together in an otherwise unremarkable pub in Westminster, close to where the old New Scotland Yard building used to stand.

However, on the insistence of others – mainly Peter and Miriam – they agreed to mark it each in their own way. Thomas went with Peter and Richard to see Ray Gelato play at Ronnie Scott’s, followed by a late supper at the Savoy Grill, and Miriam proposed taking Alex on a traditional stag-night pub crawl.

Thomas, having seen enough Seawoll-Stephanopoulos celebrations over the years, forbade it to take place any closer than one week prior to the ceremony.

‘Look here, I’m sorry to sound like an old woman, but I really do not want to see you clutching your head and groaning and reeking of stale alcohol on the morning of our wedding. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Thomas had been about to head in the other direction, but he now turned back slowly to face Alex.

‘Say that again.’

Alex smirked ever so slightly and drew himself up. He inclined his head and looked Thomas directly in the eye.

‘Yes. _Sir_.’

Thomas looked at his watch. ‘Right, we’ve got ten minutes,’ he said, before they fled upstairs.  


In the event, Alex’s and Miriam’s night did not match the excesses of earlier years. Rather, they took the opportunity to catch up properly, something that they rarely did these days, since the twins had come along.

They made it at least to a second pub, thus fulfilling the notional requirements of a pub crawl, and, honour satisfied, ordered something to eat and settled in for the evening.

Their chat ranged far and wide, as it does when very old friends have the uninterrupted time and the inclination to exchange the minutiae of their lives, and it was only towards the end of the evening that Miriam broached the subject that interested her the most (and, if she was honest, the one about which she was most sick of fielding questions from other ranks and departments).

She pushed away the remains of her pudding and sat back in her chair.

‘I always knew, you know.’

‘Knew what?’

‘You. And him.’

‘Of course you did. I bloody told you!’

‘No, I don’t mean after it started, when it was all “a big secret.”’ Miriam performed very elaborate air-quotes. ‘I mean before.’

Alex regarded her critically. ‘Oh you did, did you?’

‘I mean, I’m glad. That it’s worked out. You’re happy, or at least you seem to be.’ Alex raised his glass ironically. ‘I never would have thought it, but who the fuck ever does, right?’ she put her head to one side.

‘I’m sure you have a point in there somewhere, Miriam. Shall I order another bottle while we wait for you to find it?’

‘Ha ha. Very funny.’ She considered, ‘But, actually, another bottle wouldn’t be a terrible idea.’ She signalled the waiter, and made the appropriate request while the table was cleared.

‘So, where was I?’

‘No idea.’

‘Nice try. Oh yes – no, thank you, just leave the bottle, thanks – why?’

‘Are you talking to me again now?’

‘Yeeees,’ said Miriam, with the air of one whose patience was being stretched very thinly. ‘Why?’

‘Why am I with Nightingale?’

‘Alex, for fucks sake.’

‘Ok, ok.’ He thought. ‘Well… because it works, for one. He’s another copper - well up to a point. But that means he gets it. You know that every other serious relationship I’ve had ended primarily because of the job. How you and Pam keep it going is beyond me, but-‘ he held up a hand as he saw that Miriam was about to enlighten him –‘that’s not the point right now. He gets it. Fuck, his hours are even worse than mine – he’s technically never off duty.’

‘It’s not just that though, is it?’ said Miriam. ‘If it was just about the job you could’ve been shacked up with any one of half the DIs in Fraud or Vice by now. So…’

‘So?’

‘So what…?’

‘What?’

Miriam rolled her eyes. ‘What. Do. You. See. In. Him?’

‘I dunno. Like you say, who the fuck does? Why are you with Pam?’ he held up his hand again, as she opened her mouth to speak, ‘That was a rhetorical question. Ok, then, how about this. Who did you fancy when you were 20? 25?’

‘Easy. Mary Stuart Masterson.’

‘ _Who_?’

Miriam rolled her eyes. ‘She’s an actress. She was in-‘

‘No, never mind. It’s not important. But just imagine, right, if she came waltzing in here now – looking exactly the same as she did then, mind – and tried to get in your knickers. What would you do?’

Miriam thought. ‘Fair point.’

‘It’s not _just_ that, obviously. It’s been six years now, give or take, and’ he shrugged, ‘when you know you know, right? And who the fuck knows what will happen down the line – I mean, it’s not exactly a normal set-up, is it? – again, rhetorical question – but, since you ask, for now, for us, like I say, it works.’

Miriam narrowed her eyes. ‘You see, you’ve given me an awful lot of generalities, Inspector, but no actual specifics. So I wonder what _you_ would do with an interviewee like this.’

‘Fucking hell, Miriam, alright, fine.’ Alex poured more wine into his glass. ‘Shit.’ He glared at her. ‘He’s… funny, he makes me laugh. Ugh,’ he dropped his head in his hands briefly, ‘well that’s a fucking cliché. Ok,’ he cleared his throat. ‘So: he’s kind and he’s thoughtful. To everyone, I mean. And he’s loyal - he would go to the fucking wall for any of us, you know that.’ She nodded. ‘He’s… brave, for want of a better word. Jesus, Miriam, he has gone through shit that you and I can’t even imagine, and I don’t think I even know the half of it.’ He considered. ‘He’s stuck in fuck knows what kind of time warp, and could easily just stick with what he knows, but he doesn’t, he listens to people – well, sometimes – he adapts, he watches and he learns, and, fucking hell, I think he actually tries to be better.’ He paused, and a smile played around his mouth, ‘He’s good-looking – well he does it for me, at any rate – and he’s _fantastic_ in-‘

‘Enough!’ and it was Miriam’s turn to hold up her hand.

Alex grinned sheepishly, ‘Well you did fucking ask.’

‘I did. I did.’

‘And I’ll tell you something else, if you like: I never didn’t notice when he walked into the room.’

Miriam wrinkled her brow while she worked out the negatives, then she nodded sagely and raised her glass.

They clinked.

***

By the time Alex returned to the Folly with his party, including a small elderly woman with a somewhat forbidding aspect and Alex’s eyes, almost all other guests had arrived. Molly, who could not be dissuaded from doing so, was circulating with a tray of glasses as people milled and hello’d and cheek-pecked in the atrium. For any who had forgotten, all guests were reminded to turn off their mobile ‘phones, to avoid any unexpected and unwanted damage. 

Abigail had dug out the vintage Leica camera, and she pounced on Jaget as he walked through the front door with Nisha. She handed the camera to him.

‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ he said. ‘Hello Abigail, by the way.’

‘You remember how to use it?’ said Abigail, foregoing the niceties.

‘Er, yeah,’ he said examining it.

‘So use it,’ she said and walked off to hand a buttonhole to Alex.

‘Great,’ said Jaget, turning to Nisha and shrugging.

Alex spotted Beverley, loitering by the statue of Sir Isaac. Rosie had skipped off to have her dress of ivory tulle with a dark blue sash admired by her grandmother, who was already seated in state, and catching up – without drawing breath it seemed – with Elsie, who having arrived with Postmartin, had promptly abandoned him, much to his chagrin, after spotting Rose and falling on her with gleeful cries.

‘How’s it all going?’ Alex asked, nodding at the statue.

‘I should really be asking you that. But, yeah, ok. So far.’

Peter had come up with some complicated eighth-order shield spell which, with Thomas’ help in casting that morning, protected Beverley from the effects of the Folly wards, albeit temporarily. It seemed to be working, but Bev was making sure that, unless it was entirely unavoidable, she kept one eye on the exit at all times. Given the temporary nature of the spell, Peter had also discovered that jokes about turning into pumpkins were really not funny.

‘Would you mind?’ said Alex, holding up the buttonhole. Bev took it and, concentrating, fixed it to his lapel.

‘Thanks. How are you feeling? Generally, I mean.’

‘Knackered. But it goes with the territory. At least I get a bit of time off today.’ She smiled at him and put a hand on his chest. ‘It’s a good day I reckon.’

Alex hugged her briefly. ‘Thanks. Yeah. I think so,’ he said. He checked his watch – a gift from Thomas in their first year, which, despite Thomas’ protestations, Alex still considered unsuitable for everyday use – ‘But we need to get a move on. We’re supposed to start soon. Where the fuck has his nibs got to?’

Beverley shrugged. ‘I dunno. I haven’t seen him since we got here; I think Molly sent Peter to look. Don’t worry, he’ll find him.’  


Peter rounded the corridor in the basement and admitted to a feeling of slight smugness when he realised he’d been right first time.

He poked his head around the door of the firing range. Thomas, his jacket placed carefully on one of the benches, was in his shirtsleeves launching volley after volley of fireballs towards the paper targets.

‘It’s nearly time,’ said Peter. ‘Everyone’s here.’

‘Very good. I’ll be there directly,’ said Thomas, but showed no immediate sign of moving.

Peter stepped around the door. ‘What’s up?’ he said, as Thomas sent what looked like a flaming javelin down the length of the room. ‘Nervous?’

‘Yes,’ said Thomas, launching a succession of further fireballs.

‘Yeah, well. I get that. Usually everyone is. Or if they say they’re not, they’re probably lying. I remember how I felt. At least you’ve not got a bunch of goddesses at _your_ wedding.’

Thomas turned to him and smiled. ‘No there is that. Just the one today.’

‘Come on then.’

Thomas took a deep breath, put on his jacket, buttoned it, shot his cuffs and followed Peter upstairs.

Alex was exchanging a few words with the registrar when Thomas joined them.

‘Alright?’

‘Yes. Thank you,’ said Thomas and gave Alex’s arm a reassuring squeeze.

The registrar took them to one side.

‘As I was just saying to Alex, I have everything I need. We’ll perform the ceremony over there, as you’ve set it up. Now, the marriage service – the legal side of things – is the same as if we were in a church, but there is an allowance for personalisation, should you wish. So, have either of you prepared your own vows?’

‘ _No_!’ they said, in unison.

‘I see.’ She smiled. ‘Well then, everyone is here I think?’ Alex nodded. ‘So, whenever you’re ready. Good luck,’ she said and moved off.

The registrar called the guests to assemble. Rosie, Miriam and Molly joined Thomas and Alex at the back end of a makeshift aisle between three or four rows of rout chairs. When everyone had found a seat, with a prompt from Molly, Rosie marched forward seriously, carrying a posy of blue and white violets, matching the buttonholes the rest of them wore. She was followed by Molly and Miriam, arm in arm in dark blue trouser suits, but before they could reach the front, Rosie abandoned her posy, and rushed back past them to grab Thomas and Alex each by the hand, dragging them forward and urging them to ‘Hurry _up_.’

  
'Alexander James, will you take Thomas Stanley to be your husband? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and protect him and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?'

'I will.'

'Thomas Stanley, will you take Alexander James...'

  
And so: they were married.

They were married. They were congratulated. Champagne popped. Some wept. Everyone toasted.

They were married. They mingled with friends and family – and really the two were interchangeable. There were hugs, there were kisses, there was joy.

They were married. They sat, and ate and drank, and celebrated. There were speeches, there was laughter. And there was love.

It was a wedding. A day of both solemnity and elation. A day for lovers and for friends. Despite the time of year, it was a day of light and hope and life.

  
The day wore on and the sky had long darkened over the atrium’s glass roof by the time the newly-married couple made their way to what had been demarked as the dance floor, as scores of tiny werelights blinked and flickered overhead. 

Somewhat bashfully, they took their places, and, as the opening bass notes of Chet Baker’s _My Funny Valentine_ were heard, they began to move hesitantly, not used to embracing even in front of others; but, almost immediately, and moving as one, they were joined by a throng of other couples, so that, even before the end of the second line, Miriam and Pam, Molly and Foxglove, Peter and Bev, Rose and Richard, Sahra and Michael, Abdul and Abigail even… everyone there found a partner, even if only for that one dance, and joined them.

The song ended. Thomas and Alex smiled at each other. The Irregulars took up their instruments and launched into a swinging version of _All of Me_ and the evening’s festivities began.  


Several hours later, Thomas found himself helping his husband up the stairs to bed. Some guests had retired; some had gone home, braving the journey across town; some, like Abigail, had gone to continue their night elsewhere; and some remained downstairs, awaiting the turn of the new year. The Irregulars had packed away their instruments, but Peter’s cousin was still providing the music for those who still wanted to dance.

Alex had danced. Alex had danced _a lot_ to the music of his youth, with Miriam and others, while Thomas leaned against the wall by the improvised bar, chatting intermittently but mostly watching him, smiling. But now Alex was done and wanted to go to bed. Once they reached Thomas’s room – now their room he supposed, and smiled again – Alex stumbled against the door.

‘It’s ok. ‘m ok.’

‘Glad to hear it. Now then. In we go.’

After managing to get off both shoes, Alex reeled towards the bathroom. He managed to clean his teeth, and drink a glass of water, while Thomas stood ready to catch him.

He swirled around to face Thomas. ‘Right, husband! Bed.’

‘Yes. Good idea. I rather think you need to sleep.’

‘No, not to sleep! Come on. Wedding night. I’ll be fine. Really.’ He moved towards Thomas, staggered and had to clutch the door frame for support.

‘No, my darling, I don’t think so,’ Thomas said as he took hold of Alex and guided him across the room. ‘And neither of us are blushing virgins. It can wait until tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow,’ repeated Alex with intent and collapsed onto the bed. ‘Sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ok, then.’

Thomas removed Alex’s clothes and arranged him more appropriately; he performed his own ablutions and then climbed into bed beside him.

Alex groped for his hand, mumbled something that Thomas intuited, rather than heard, as ‘Love you,’ and was asleep within a minute. Thomas lay awake for a while longer, still marvelling that they could share a bed as a married couple, but then felt himself edging over into sleep. He was just at the tipping point when he was stirred back to wakefulness by distant booming. After a second or so of confusion, he realised it was the fireworks on the Thames he could hear. It must be midnight. Thomas smiled into the darkness. A new year. A new decade. 

A new chapter.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugh’s Latin quotation is from Book IV of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, which the internet helpfully translates as: “Here was Atlas, son of Iapetus, exceeding all mortal men by the size of his body.”
> 
> Thanks to both PerchingOwl - for stellar and committed beta work, above and beyond; and to utrinque-paratus - primary Seagale enabler.
> 
> Oh and title taken from My Funny Valentine (Chet Baker’s version *strongly* recommended).


End file.
